


so we carry on, even as a pawn

by quinnking



Category: Queen of the South (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:15:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24725878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinnking/pseuds/quinnking
Summary: "Shall we get down to business?" She gives him a look, and saunters past him into the room.Taking a deep breath, he mutters, "absolutely," before closing the room door and trapping himself inside a makeshift lion's den.How can he not think about it? She's shed her jacket, walks her way to where he keeps the liquor.
Relationships: Camila Vargas/Alonzo Loya
Kudos: 8





	so we carry on, even as a pawn

**Author's Note:**

> so, i devoured seasons 1 to 3 of this show. camila absolutely stole my heart and while i do ship jeresa and all that jazz, alonzo/camila stood out to me bc it's perfect enemies-to-informants-to-lovers-to-friends, or whatever shit. so, yeah. i wrote this. most of the dialogue is canon and from the show. i just filled in some of the pieces. 
> 
> come talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/reginasking) and [tumblr](https://reginasking.tumblr.com/), i don't bite!
> 
> title comes from love i all you love by band of skulls!

_keep the rival trim and then we do what we can, it's like the money you lost and all the blood and the guts_

* * *

Of course he knows it's her before he even opens the (admittedly, nice) hotel room door. She's in red and black, her signature. 

"Agent Loya." 

"Governor." 

He's thought about it. Of course he has.

"You're looking well," he says. 

She pays no mind to that. "You did good with the drones," she replies back, walking in, so close to him that he can smell her perfume. He backs up a little to let her through, to not let her touch. "Shall we get down to business?" She gives him a _look_ , and saunters past him into the room.

Taking a deep breath, he mutters, "absolutely," before closing the room door and trapping himself inside a makeshift lion's den. 

How can he _not_ think about it? She's shed her jacket, walks her way to where he keeps the liquor. He stands on the other side of the room, by the other side of that massive, comfortable bed, and watches her pour two shots. She's walking toward him, glasses in hand, when he says, "when you reached out to me two months ago, I thought this was a crazy idea." 

"What? For a Mexican governor to help bring down a narco?" She chuckles. "That's why I was elected." 

He's not taking that bait, whatever it is. "You want Boaz Jimenez out of your hair," he says, matter-of-fact. 

"You know, there's people in my state that have doubts about my competence. There are those who think that a woman isn't worthy to fill her husband's shoes. You deliver Boaz to your superiors, and you will be reinstated, and my approval ratings will soar. It works well for both of us."

She raises the glass to her lips, keeping eye contact. 

"Why'd you choose to come to me, Camila?" he asks, boldly, her name rolling off his tongue like it belongs there. "It was a risk."

Another deep, low chuckle. "There's no gain without risk. And despite the fact that we've been adversaries, I believe you're a decent man, Alonzo." Is he? "I just gambled on you being a pragmatic one, too." She gives him a smile before her phone buzzes. 

General Cortez. Fucking lunatic. She lets it ring. 

"Have you told Cortez about our arrangement yet?"

She rejects the call and turns her phone face down. 

"He knows I've been leaking information to someone inside the DEA, and that's all he needs to know about this."

That sounds dangerous, and slightly threatening, but what words out of that mouth don't? 

"Now." She raises the glass. "To you." She gives him that smile again. "And getting your badge back." 

He looks down for a moment, then raises his glass and looks her back in the eye. 

"To Governor Vargas." 

They clink glasses.

"Salud." She downs the shot, and he does too, not looking away from him before she says, "now, about Boaz and the Colombians..." and she looks away, turns her back, and he realizes she's let him off her trap for now. 

He's thinking about it more and more. 

* * *

She's in all black, one side of the dress leaving her shoulder completely exposed, and he tries not to stare at her collarbone.

He mutters on about business, as to _not_ think about it. "Malta authorities won't go near Teresa with de la Peña protecting her." 

She's walking back and forth, looking like a caged lioness. "You're holding out on me." 

He gives her a look of disbelief. "I'm doing everything in my power." 

"The DEA's operating from the embassy in Malta. All I'm asking you is to give them Teresa so she can be extradited back to Mexico." 

"Teresa saved your life at that club. That don't mean anything to you?"

His old partner did say... loyalty was her currency. He's seeing that more and more with her anger in regards to Teresa. 

She scoffs. "Don't fool yourself. I was the only thing keeping her alive. She was saving herself."

He's not sure about that. Maybe Teresa was, maybe she wasn't. He's most certainly not going to voice his opinions to Camila when she's looking like she wants a fight and some blood. So, instead, he tells her, "I won't help you kill anyone."

"All I'm asking you is to have her sent back to the country where her crime was committed."

A brief pause. Then, "Alonzo." He hates how it sounds coming from her mouth, hates how he has to will his body not to react to it. She walks toward him. "You're a good man." Even closer, practically just a breath away. "You want her in jail? So do I. I want her to rot. Slowly." Her voice does this low, gravelly thing that makes his stomach go into knots. "And I don't have to bring her in myself. That can be you. That should be you. All I want is to visit her, and smile, just to hear how lonely and sad and pathetic her life is, as often as I want. That means Teresa has to come back to Mexico."

Eye contact, as there always is, since it's a game. A war of wills. 

"I'm listening." And he is. 

She takes a step closer before falling back. "Good." He watches her intently, watches her grab a ratty old book from the table. "This book brought Teresa into my life." She's getting closer again, the book between them as it presses into his chest. "And now it's gonna help me get rid of her." 

He grabs the book from her, careful as not to touch her hands as he does so. 

"Teresa's operation has a weakness."

He's all ears.

* * *

His phone buzzes, and it takes him only one ring to answer and say, "Camila." 

"I need you to come," she says, breathing heavy. "Right away." 

And then the line's dead, and he's thinking about it more and more and more. 

* * *

"I don't know what you want me to tell you," he says, aggravated. 

"Really?" She has a half-drunk glass in her hand. The first thing she did when he got there was grab herself a drink and swallow it down. He doesn't ask. 

He tries to reason with her, instead, as she seems... off. "It's not like she's on her own." 

"Yeah, I know that," she snaps. 

"I've got nothing for you. The DEA lost sight of Mendoza when she got burned in Malta." 

She's standing right in front of him now, wearing red. She looks good in this dress, in her rage. 

"Then you need to work your sources harder. I want her found, do you understand?" 

He's irritated now. He stands, gets closer. "Just how much access do you think I have? I'm still on suspension!" 

"And I just gave you one of Boaz Jimenez's shipments. 400 kilos for you to look good! You think that comes for free?" 

Of course not. 

"Do you?" Her voice is getting louder. 

"Camila, calm down," he says, making his voice as gentle as possible.

Ah, nope, that doesn't work. It's sort of like throwing gasoline into a fire pit. She smashes the glass down onto the table and it shatters in her palm. "Don't tell me to calm down!" Noted. "You know that woman took everything from me!" 

He looks down, sees a gash of red on her palm. "Shit," he mutters, reaching down to grab her hand without thinking. 

"It's nothing." Yeah, yeah, the lioness likes to lick her wounds in private. 

"It's something." He moves his hand to her shoulder, pushes her toward the bathroom with him. "Come." 

He's surprised when she goes with him without saying a word. He runs the sore under water, watching as the blood paints the sink red—the same colour as her dress. As her lips. 

"It's a small cut. Hold it here." He dabs it with a white cloth. "It's not as bad as it looks."

"Sometimes I wish I had a different life," she says quietly. 

He covers the gash with the cloth, wraps his hand around hers to fold it around it. He looks away from her as he responds, "sometimes we all do," but looks back at her just in time for her to meet his eyes and in a flash, she turns fully and kisses him, her arm going up and around to the back of his neck. His find their way to her waist, touching soft curves. 

He leans back, their mouths separating. Her hands are on his face. It's all kinds of distracting. 

"This is not a good idea." 

Well, at least he said it. Let it be known. 

"I don't care," she husks, before pulling him into another kiss. 

Her hands go straight for his shirt, tugging until it's off. Her fingers are hot, burning the sides of his neck as their kisses get heavier and harder. He spins her around, undoing the back of her dress and pushing her down toward the sink. She lets out this _noise_ as he does so, helps get out of the rest of her dress by shimmying. She's wearing a dark blue slip, and it feels good under his hands as he runs his fingers up her thighs to push it high enough up. And—no panties. Well. He lowers a finger between her legs, just to see, and she's hot and slick and he feels kind of proud of himself that he was able to get this woman as hot as she is now with just kisses and a little bit of intimacy. 

He makes quick work of his pants and boxers, pushing them down far enough, before he presses into her. She lets out that noise again, quiet, but he's listening for it. He wastes no time as he thrusts once, fully inside her. She seems to like it, as she steels herself by pressing both hands down onto the counter as an anchor. They're both panting as he moves, hard, his hands wrapping around her forearms as leverage. 

She smells so good, her hair smelling faintly of her shampoo and lingering cigarette smoke. She's pressing back into him, meeting him thrust for thrust, mostly quiet aside from the small little noises she makes when he hits a particular spot inside her. He unwraps one of his hands from around her forearm, brings them to her face. They meet eyes in the mirror and for a second he thinks she may bite him, but she sucks the fingers into her mouth. Her tongue is hot and wet and he can't help but wonder how her mouth would feel wrapped around him, but she's not that type of woman, he bets. Not that it's a bad thing, and he feels like it's a privilege alone to feel Camila Vargas like this in any which way. 

He brings his spit-soaked fingers down between her thighs, finding her clit and pressing down. Her hips shoot back into his, a noise a little needier than the rest coming out of that mouth. He's counting every single one of his blessings. He presses down harder, moves deeper, watches in the mirror as she bends further over the sink to change the angle just so, and he moves faster and faster until she gasps and tightens around him. He waits, dutifully, until her spasms stop before pushing himself as deep as he can go, and coming inside of her with a long groan. 

They stay still for a couple of moments, breathing heavily, his forehead on his shoulder and her arms basically supporting them both on the counter. When he regains himself and looks down, he sees that the counter has some red stains. Her hand. 

He straightens up, slipping out of her—and man, oh man, he misses it already. Not thinking about it didn't get him very far, since it's now happened, but all he'll be doing now is thinking about having more of it. 

"Let me bandage that for you," he says, gentle. 

Her makeup is a little smudged, her lipstick gone (actually, not gone, it's just on _his_ mouth now) and she looks very human. But he's not going to let that fool him. She's probably still just as poisonous without the armour. 

She stands back up fully, gives him her hand without a word. This woman never ceases to surprise him, but he'll never say that aloud. He watches her watch him with hawk-like precision as he bandages up the small wound and he kisses her neck, just once, before leaving her in the bathroom. He grabs himself a glass of whatever she'd been drinking and chugs it down before pouring her one, leaving it on the table, and cleaning up the shattered shards.

They fuck again once more, on the couch, before she leaves a couple of hours later. 

* * *

It keeps happening. Often. Sometimes first, sometimes at the end. Sometimes, on days she's feeling particularly feral or _something,_ it happens as soon as she sees him and after they go through the motions of their meeting. More often than not, it's the latter. 

What surprises him most about sex with Camila is that, while it is inevitably a game for her, it doesn't feel like one. He suspects that more than half the time, it's little less than a game and more of something she uses to cope (such as that first time, there was intimacy there; something he'd never seen from her). He's more than happy to do that, of course, to leave her satisfied and coming back for more. More... sex, information. Banter, even. He can't help but think if they were different people in different lives, they'd be real honest-to-God friends. Maybe more. But he's not foolish. He's a newly reinstated DEA agent. She's his informant. She's, possibly, his new target. And she doesn't know it, so this is a little bit complicated. But, they have a common goal in finding Teresa Mendoza and capturing Boaz Jimenez, and sometimes they fuck. Okay, they fuck every time. Sometimes they meet up just to fuck under the guise of a meeting. 

This time, though. Something is different. She comes into his hotel room, wearing a sexy red dress and smelling all kinds of good, and as soon as the door is closed, she pounces. She sheds off her dress herself as they kiss, their tongues moving against each other in a way that makes him hard almost immediately. He has her pressed against the door, his fingers tight on the soft roundness of her hips, digging in. She seems to like it, crave it even, her teeth nipping at his lips before she thrusts her hips out. He drops to his knees in front of her as she shucks her black slip to above her waist, running his knuckles up her thigh before throwing it over his shoulder. 

He enjoys doing this for her. He enjoys doing it for most women, actually, but for her... it feels like it's a gift she's allowing him to indulge in. He kisses her thigh, running his canines along the smooth expanse of skin, feeling pride prickle his skin as she shudders. He can smell her, a tangy Earthy scent with the taste to match it, and he thinks this... this is more addictive than any drug she can make and distribute. He swipes his tongue, once, from slit to clit, and her hips buck up. He presses his hands into her hips, holding them to the door. 

As much as he wants to tease, he knows she's in a mood, can feel it radiating off of her, so he presses his tongue flat against her clit and hums. She makes a noise, _the_ noise, and he's hard and straining in his jeans. He doesn't touch himself, though, because he wants to fuck her after. Wants to release whatever it is he's feeling now and use her as a conduit for it. He pushes two fingers into her, then another, and crooks them up. She makes a breathy noise, her hips wriggling the best they can in his grip. Her fingers are on his head, nails in his hair and digging in, and yeah, the claws hurt, but this typically means she's close and doesn't want to make a sound. 

He wraps his lips around her clit and sucks, hard, using his teeth to scrape against the sensitive nub on every upstroke of his fingers and that does it. She growls, her voice low and gravelly and sexy as hell, and he feels her come around his fingers, on his face, lets her hips go and allows her to grind on him. 

When she starts to twitch away from his ministrations, he stops, looks up at her to find her looking back down at him. Without taking his eyes off her, he takes his fingers out from inside her and licks them clean, watches her eyes darken. She tugs him up and kisses him, sloppily, her tongue tasting herself on his and—uh, yeah, that's sexy. He needs to fuck her, pronto. 

"Get cleaned up first," she says, hard, grabbing her discarded dress from the floor and putting it on the nightstand. She grabs a black robe, puts it on, and he goes into the bathroom to wash his hands, clean his mouth, whatever it was she wants. He grabs a cigarette on his way out, sees her standing by the window, looking deep in thought.

"Everything okay?" he asks, as he takes a drag from the cigarette.

She looks at him, reaches out to grab the cigarette. He's just behind her now, so close as he touches her hair with his fingers.

"What's on your mind?" 

She takes a drag of the cigarette, and he presses a kiss to her shoulder, smooths down her hair. 

"I understood the rules when we started this," she says, and he noses her shoulder. "We had common goals and the exchange of information helped us both." Another kiss on the shoulder before moving to her neck, leaving a kiss there before she turns to face him. "The rest of it was..." She looks down at his body, then back up to his face. "Unexpected." He starts rolling his fingers against each other, his rings making noise in the eerily quiet room. "Lovely." She's looking at his chest. 

"It has been." Her eyes meet his, and they hold, until he leans in to kiss her and she dodges, his mouth making contact with her cheek instead. 

She raises the cigarette to her lips, saying, "I know the DEA reinstated you," before taking a drag. "And I know their goal is no longer Boaz, but me." She puffs out the smoke, letting it waft into his face. 

He takes a step back, not hiding the surprise from his face—quite by accident, but he can spin this. 

"You think I lied to you?" He did, kind of. 

She pushes herself off from the wall, walks around him and says, "I don't want to believe that." 

He clenches his jaw, letting out a breath, turning to watch her as she puts the cigarette out. 

"I don't know who's been telling you these things, but I'd ask you what they have to gain." It's probably that sick fucko Cortez, but he won't say that out loud to her. She walks toward him again, just as he tells her, "I saved your life when I didn't know you. You think I'd set you up now that I do?" Half truth, half truth, half truth. He'd fought against her becoming a next target, trying to keep her out and away from the DEA. 

"We've been at war, Camila." He takes a step closer to her. "But in this thing here, I'm with you." Not actually a lie. 

He watches her face, sees _something_ , as she orders, "say it again." 

He brings his palm to the side of her face, cups her ear in his hand, rubs his thumb along her cheek. "I'm with you." 

This time when he leans in to kiss her, she doesn't stop it. Gentle at first, until her hand goes to his face and she deepens the kiss, backing them up toward the bed. They get that damn robe off, leaving her in that fucking black slip, and she sits on the bed in front of him. Her hands push his shirt up, almost as if she can't get to his skin fast enough, and plans a kiss to his chest. He takes her face in both of his hands and kisses her again, pushing her to lie back.

He unbuckles his belt, slides it through the belt loops, and tosses it to the floor. Her thighs are being distracting, rubbing against his. This woman... 

He pushes her thigh open, feeling it as it raises around his waist, her feet pressing against his ass. He grabs both of her hands, twining their fingers together, and pinning them above her head. Their kisses are heavy and wet and not at all finessed. It's all messy and sloppy, tongues and teeth. This may be the realest sexual interaction they've ever had. 

She's rubbing up against him, legs locked at the ankles behind his back, and fuck, he needs to be inside her now. 

He stands up straight and gets fully naked, his pants and boxers discarded on the floor. She's watching him, brown eyes impossibly darker as she takes his body in. He feels... some kind of power. He grabs her thighs and tugs her to the edge of the bed, pushes her thighs apart again to feel her. She's soaking wet, he confirms as he runs a finger along her slit, and he presses in. She locks her legs around his waist, and when he's about to press his hands into the meat of her hips, she grabs them and reroutes, putting them in the same position as before. 

Their fingers are interlocked and he presses them down, hard, above her head. She seems to like this, uses it as an anchor to raise her hips and take him in deeper. She lets out a needy little moan, a sound she's never let herself make before with him. They keep on kissing. Don't stop, even when she breaks apart for air, he kisses her jaw, her neck, until she kisses him again. This is the most intimate sexual encounter he's ever had. Full stop. With her, or any woman. 

He's sure her wrists must ache at this point, his thrusts as powerful as his hold on them, but she doesn't let on. She keeps on kissing him, keeps on making those little deep mewling noises in his ear, keeps meeting him with each movement until she tightens around him, lets out a gasp, and comes. He watches, looks down at her as the orgasm washes through her. She's glorious, and watching her is enough to have him coming inside her after a couple more thrusts. Her thighs release from around him, hanging over the bed as he presses down and stays on top of her, warm and sated. They exchange kisses, less heavy and hot, but still filled with something he can't describe. 

After a few moments, he kisses her neck, the tops of her breasts, and heaves off of her. It's definitely by sheer willpower that he doesn't harden again and start all over, because she looks a hot mess on his hotel room bed, her thighs sticky and glistening with him, her tan skin flushed, her eyes still dark. 

"I'll be back," he tells her and goes into the bathroom to wash his face, to let her slide her mask back on. 

As he wets a face towel and presses it into his face, he sees it in the mirror. A small camera. He lets out a deep breath and grips the edges of the sink hard. He goes back into the room, sees Camila dressed and putting her heels on. He leans against the door frame, sees another camera. 

He watches her and it takes her a moment, but she catches him, looks right back at him. 

"Come here," he tells her. 

She stands, smooths out the lines on her dress, and walks to him, arms wrapping around his neck before touching her lips to his. His arms are around her waist, feeling the soft curves—a real juxtaposition of the sharp lines and edges he'd assumed she'd have. He moves from her mouth to her neck, before whispering in her ear, "there's a camera in the motion detector. I know what you're doing, and I know who's behind it." 

She moves, touches her forehead to his. His palm is on the side of her neck, cupping her ear, under her hair. Like it belongs there, and maybe it does. 

"Last year, Cortez tried to kill you." His thumb smooths over her cheek. "And I saved your life." He brings his hand further down her neck, brings his thumb under her chin and pushes until her head raises and his thumb stays on her throat. Non-threatening. A little bit arousing. "So who are you gonna believe?" 

He watches the gears turn in her head, and this is a gamble because for all he knows, she set this up with him. This was one last fuck before she brings in her guard dog to do her bidding. 

She kisses him again, a sweet and soft thing, before saying, "take the side door," in his ear. He's happy she can't see him because he's almost completely unable to mask his surprise. 

He tells her, "get out of here," and with a single look, she's grabbing her purse and out the door. He watches her go, trying to figure out his next plan of attack. He leans against wood, watching as a soldier creeps his way into the room, and strikes. 

He disarms the soldier, punching him, throwing him onto a table and watching as a vase shatters. He grabs his weapon, hides behind the wall just as shots ring out. He shoots his own, things breaking all around them, until Cortez shoots and gets him in the soldier.

With a grunt he presses his fingers to the wound, sees them come back red. He makes a break for it, ignoring the pain for a moment, to hide. Once Cortez finds him, he jumps out and attacks, trying to get the gun out of his hands but Cortez and his fucking trigger happy finger lets round after round his everywhere _but_ him. Their guns drop, and the bastard is smug as he says, "mano a mano. I'm gonna like this."

"Just like you like watching me and Camila?" And, yeah, he should have expected the punch Cortez through. Not that it hurt much. 

They struggle more and fuck, he does know how to fight, he'll give Cortez that. They struggle, throwing punches and kicks, until Cortez has him in a chokehold. The fucker says, "Camila and I will rule Mexico." So, that's what his angle is. "And there's no room for a little boy." Fucking sicko.

He reaches, reaches, until he grabs it, an alarm clock, he thinks, and hits Cortez hard over the head with it. 

"Better her boy, than her dog," he says with a smug smile, before leaving Cortez on the floor.

* * *

That was the last time. It was certainly the last time he expects to see her. It's most certainly not the last time he thinks about her, about them, about what they did together. Lonely nights with just his hand, why _wouldn't_ he come back to those nights? In meetings with his partners and superiors, when they talk about her crimes, he thinks about her under him. He can't help it. 

So after everything goes down and Isabela drops that bombshell, he gets a call from her, and yeah, it surprises the fuck out of him. She texts an address, tries to call him, but it's shitty reception. He goes anyway, because what-the-fuck else does he have to lose? 

It looks like an abandoned dance studio. And when she answers the door, she looks as rundown as he's sure she feels. She doesn't say a word as she leads him inside, until she snarks, "I didn't think you were coming." 

"Nice to see you, too," he volleys back. He closes the inside door behind them. 

She gives him a look. "Better late than never." 

"I had trouble getting across the Sinaloa border," he explains. 

She looks exasperated as she responds, "yeah, Cortez is watching everything." She calls him a son of a bitch in Spanish and walks.

"Well, we both know he's good at that, don't we?" 

She calls him a poor asshole in Spanish, and grabs the bottle of tequila. She takes a swig, and waits until they're face to face to start talking.

"Listen, Alonzo," she starts. "I didn't know what Cortez was doing." Bullshit. "And I was honest with you." Once the clothes came off, maybe. There's an almost-uncomfortable pause. "Can you say the same thing?" She starts toward him, getting into his space.

He takes a shaky breath. "You were right. I was the one holding out on you." 

He watches her face, carefully, sees her mask slip. "Go on," she tells him. 

"Cortez was telling you the truth. I had been reinstated at the DEA." She looks away from him for a moment, before turning her eyes back to his. "You were my target. Then and now."

He sees her thinking, her lips pursed. He's not really quite sure what to expect, honestly. She's a bit of a wildcard with reactions.

They don't say anything else for a few moments, and he sits down, watches her pace with the bottle of liquor. 

"What if I can help you get out of this?" he tosses out. 

She chuckles. "Then you can have the rest of the tequila." She hands him the bottle, turns her back on him.

He stands and she's much closer than he expected, and he's towering over her. "I can guarantee your safety if..." He stops, for a moment, and she gives him a pointed, sassy look that says _keep talking._ "You work with me."

"For the DEA?" She looks almost disgusted. "I'm not a snitch." 

He feels his frustration grow. "Cortez is controlling your daughter." She's pacing like a caged lioness, again, something he comes to realize she does when she's stressed and thinking. "With your help, we can bring him down, get you both set up in witness protection." 

She turns to face him, hair whipping around her. "So you can get a gold star from your boss and a big, fat promotion?" She's advancing on him now. She jabs her index finger into his chest. "You're not here to help me. She taps him a couple more times as she continues, "you're here because I'm the big fish. And you're finally reeling me in."

As if it's that easy. He scoffs and runs his tongue along the inside of his lower lip. Might as well go for it, then.

"You don't have many options, Camila," he points out. 

"I could talk to the Colombians. They'll help me get back on my feet." 

She's so fucking stubborn.

"There's no coming back from this." She gives him a look, grips the barres tight. He twists a bit more. "Your days as _Camila Vargas_ are done. It's time to think about what's next." 

She says nothing, for a moment, before telling him, "I bought this studio and made it a safe house. I used to train here as a dancer. Dance was my safe place. I was obsessed with it."

He walks closer, till he's so close he can feel the heat radiating from her. "What happened?" Honestly, he'll jump on any chance he can get to learn more about this woman. 

"Love. You're right. Maybe it's time."

And, well, he's human. He grabs the side of her face and brings her up into a kiss, which she immediately returns, hand resting on his cheek. They break apart after a short moment, her finger nails scratching enticingly over his stubble and down, her thumb moving over his lips. 

He looks down at her in a way he's sure she hasn't seen in a long time, and she looks back at him, an expression of... _something_ he can't quite decipher, before she turns away from him. 

"I've got to speak with my counterpart," he says, and she nods, "work on getting you extracted from Mexico." She looks back up at him. "Give me a few hours?" 

She nods again, and he keeps looking at her, his face soft, as he tells her, "you're making the right decision, Camila."

Her face is hard as stone. "Am I?" 

He doesn't know how to respond, or if he even should, so he just gives her one last look before walking out of the studio. 

* * *

He goes back. He brings a bunch of backup. Finds a wounded soldier inside the studio, and no sign of Camila. 

He calls the number she'd texted him with. 

"Where are you?" he asks, as soon as the line goes live.

"I told you," she rasps, over the other end. "I'm not a snitch." 

"Come back and we can talk. We'll think of a plan. Together." 

"It's too late for that." 

He's going for broke here, so he says what he means. "You're in a dangerous situation, and I don't want you to get hurt, Camila." He finds... he means it. He really does. "Look, I just want to help any way that I can." 

She breathes in. "I know what that badge means to you. I don't want you to lose it again." He can't tell if this is Camila being genuine. He wishes he was having this conversation with her face-to-face. "So, I appreciate the offer, but this is something I have to do on my own terms."

He scoffs, plays with the inside of his lip with his tongue, slightly stung. "You know, you can't run forever." 

"I know," she agrees. "I have someone that's gonna help me get out of Mexico. I'll make it past Cortez." Her voice has such strong conviction that he can't help but believe it. "And, my friend. You were right. It's time for me to take a new path." 

He nods, solemn. "Yeah, well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me." 

He's sure he can see her smiling on the other end. A genuine one. 

"Good luck, Camila," he says, and finds he means it. 

"If there's anything I've learned, it's that there is no such thing as luck."

There's a pause, and he doesn't quite know what to say.

"Goodbye, Alonzo," she says, and hangs up. 

He shifts his jaw, breathes in and looks down at his black phone screen.

As far as goodbyes go, that wasn't a bad one. But, fuck, he really wanted this to go down the way he assumed. But, he supposes, that's his own fault for thinking Camila would ever do what's expected of her. 

He doesn't see her again, or hear from her again. He does hear through the grapevine, though, that Mendoza exiled her. He wonders, sometimes, where she ended up. If she's okay. If they'll ever meet again.

He hopes so. 


End file.
